


Broken

by frek



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-05
Updated: 2004-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus deals with pain and loss the only way he knows how, Snape helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

He comes to me broken, his eyes full of hurt, downcast, afraid to meet my own. He's experienced too much pain in this life. He wants a way out, but refuses to take the required actions. So he comes to me.

I take him into my chambers, allow him into my home. I know why he comes. He comes because of the anguish. He comes in search of pain. Physical pain is his only outlet of what he's feeling inside. He's too weak to create the pain himself, so he comes to me. He asks for it; he needs it. I oblige.

He looks at me from the doorway, his sandy hair falling over his sorrowful eyes. His demeanor is more reserved than it used to be. He seems to shy away from any human interaction short of what he asks of me.

I beckon him to come into the room, towards the fire. I sit in my chair, drinking tea, waiting for him to come near. He takes his time, quietly crossing the room, becoming accustomed to the chill in the air, never speaking a word. This is his routine. I don't question it; I accept it.

Once he is by my side, I place my teacup on the table and rise from my chair. I turn to face him, he shifts his weight from foot to foot; I'm taller than him by several inches. He glances up into my face, his eyes are lackluster, his face washed out. The gray in his hair is more prominent than before; his tattered clothes are in much need of repair. I know he doesn't care. Pain is the only thing that keeps his mind occupied. It's all he can think about.

I reach my hand out, grabbing his jaw and pulling his face to mine. I kiss him roughly, biting his lip until I draw blood. I taste the metallic flavor in my mouth as I continue to kiss him. He begins to kiss me back with force, suddenly alive and intense. This side of him only comes out with the experience of physical pain; though I do remember a time when he was capable of such without the hurt. It's been a long time since he could feel with such intensity; such is the downward spiral of his existence.

I remove my hand from his jaw, pulling my lips from his own. His eyes meet mine for a moment and I catch a fleeting glimpse of emotion. Loss. He needs the contact that I give him. I run my tongue along my lower lip, tasting his blood in my mouth. His lip is still bleeding; I watch him wipe the trickle of blood with his torn sleeve, staining the tattered edge a copper red.

The look on his face is apprehensive; he knows what is going to happen next. I can see it in his eyes, he doesn't want to do this, but he needs it. He needs to feel.

I watch him as he begins to remove his shirt, unhooking the buttons with shaky hands. His fingers are unsteady; they tremble as he concentrates on his task. I show no pity for him, I simply watch as he undresses, distant, cold, just like he needs.

He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and pulls it from his shoulders, allowing the worn article of clothing to drop to the stone floor. He's thin, too thin, I can see his ribs through his skin, his stomach is shallow, his hips easily recognized.

His thin frame and pale skin is accentuated by several scars; long, thin scratches that run over his body. They shine in the flickering light of the fire. These scars are the reminder of the pain in his life. His body is littered with them, each one a reminder of a particular incident. One of these scars stands out from the others. It's larger than the rest and is more reminiscent of a gash. It was the scar that made him a werewolf. It is, perhaps, the most painful of all his scars.

I reach out and run my fingernail along the scar, watching as he visibly shudders at my touch. He doesn't like me to pay attention to that particular memory. He prefers it to be left alone.

He turns his back to me, the prominent scar now out of my reach. I watch his arms move as his hands pull on his belt, removing the strap from his waist and dropping it on the ground next to his brown plaid shirt.

I step up behind him, running my fingers along his spine, allowing my fingernails to scratch pale red lines over his skin. I watch the reaction in his skin, the way the flesh that I scrape starts to swell. He pauses for a moment, his hands resting at the waistband of his trousers. I fight the urge to slip my arms around him and help him remove them. Instead, I lean over and run my teeth over the bared skin of his shoulder, feeling the tender flesh resist the prick of my teeth. I feel his body stiffen as I move my mouth over his shoulders. He's anticipating the pain, but I'm holding out.

After a moment he relaxes once more and continues to remove his trousers, pulling them first from one leg, then the other. I run my fingers along his arms, down then up, goose bumps springing up over the pale flesh. He drops his trousers; I watch them pool at his feet where they are followed rapidly by his shorts.

I let my eyes wander over his body, following the curve of his back into his arse. I allow a smile to slip over my lips, feeling quite wicked. I bend over and pick up the leather belt that he had dropped to the ground.

I circle the man, noticing the resigned slump in his shoulders, the way his eyes wouldn't move from the ground. I take his hands and pull them before him, using his belt to band them together. He knows the routine, he doesn't fight back.

I lead him across the room by his banded hands, pulling him along, stopping at my desk. I push him towards the desk, my hands flat against his back, making him lean over. I can feel him breathing heavily, shakily. His body is laboring over this, yet he keeps taking it. The will of his mind is stronger than that of his body.

As he leans before my desk, I pull my cloak off, draping it over a nearby chair. I reach over, running my fingers along his back, scraping my nails along his spine. A thin line of blood begins to appear along my scratch, coming up in little beads of crimson. I watch with mild fascination as the beads connect along the length of the scratch, the flickering light of the fire reflecting on them.

I unbutton my shirt, removing it and placing it over my cloak. He stands before me, unmoving, waiting patiently, anticipating. I pull off my trousers and shorts, slipping them over my bare feet, once again placing them over my cloak.

I step over to him once more, smearing my fingers through the blood forming along his spine, the red streaks, a sharp contrast to his pale skin. The color combination fascinates me; I run my fingers through it once more, creating more streaks across his back. I hear him let out a small whimper as my fingers make contact with the cut, the salt on my skin burning it.

He hasn't moved yet, choosing instead to accept the pain I create without protestation. I run my fingernails over his back again, pressing until I feel the flesh give under their sharp edges. The pearl-red drops bead up from the slice in his skin. I hear his breathing quicken as I do this; I enjoy his reaction. It makes me feel in control, strong.

I lift my hand from his back, watching as the beads of blood pool together to form another flawless red line. I reach into the pocket of my cloak and pull a small glass vial from it. Removing the stopper, I tip the jar into my waiting hand, a cool, smooth liquid pooling in my palm. I replace the stopper and place the vial back in my cloak.

I dip my fingers in the liquid and smooth it over his puckered entrance, pushing my finger in a little at a time. I love how the muscles resist before giving way within moments. I slide my finger out and replace it with another, moving the two around inside him as he moans before me. I remove my fingers and slick my cock with the remainder of the liquid.

I slide my hands over my cock slowly; working it up until it's erect. I then move against him, pressing against his opening before pushing inside him, hard, unforgiving.

His muscles tense up beneath me momentarily, but I feel him relax quickly enough. I reach my hand around to the front of his body and slide my slick fingers over his own erect cock. I hear him moan deeply at the sensations I'm sending through his body, sending shivers down my own spine.

I begin to move inside him slowly, the feeling of his muscles clenching my cock tightly sending waves of pleasure through my body. As my hand is moving along his cock, I begin to thrust into him, reveling in the feelings swarming my brain.

He begins to move along with me, pushing against my cock, throwing off my rhythm. I place my free hand on his back, over his cuts, causing him to cry out in pain before he realized what he had done. His body stops moving against mine and I continue with what I was doing.

I push into his body, my hand working on his cock, my movement becoming even more irregular with each thrust I make into his tight opening. I press into him one last time, my muscles tightening with the mounting pleasure before relaxing as my movement in him comes to a stop.

I continue to work his cock with my hand feeling it stiffen even more under my fingers. His breathing begins to become more erratic as I slip over his cock repeatedly. And just as in my body, I feel his muscles tense up momentarily before relaxing into my arms.

I pull my hand away from his cock, and examine his back, the two lines of blood stretch in two different directions on his back. The smears streak both right and left and remind me of wings over his torso. His breathing is ragged as he recovers from our act.

I pull him to his feet, turning his body to face me. He refuses to .my eyes, instead choosing to keep his to the floor. I pull the belt from his wrists and release him from my grasp.

He stumbles across the floor and lies down before the hearth. Curled up in a ball, his back to the cold room, he sleeps.

I pull my clothes on my body, watching the man in the firelight, his tan hair falling over his face, hiding his eyes. The red gashes across his back stare back at me. They'll be the newest scars to his collection, a testament to the pain he's gone through both physically and mentally.

I sit before the fire in my usual chair with him lying near my feet. I recall our night together and how I help him in the only way I can


End file.
